"I'm fucking staying," he retorts, bending to pick up the shampoo bottle and set it on the shelf once more. "I already texted her. It's just like, dude, this isn't a fucking boys' night for us. You're drunk, I'm here. If I went now, I'd just be pissed anyway." Clearly, it's not even worth it to go; he'll probably check his phone before bed, just to check for a reply from Quinn.

Sam steps out of the shower with the water still running, leaving a trail of wet footprints and drips over the floor and down the hallway to his bedroom. Puck waits, actually drying off before following, but turning instead to his bedroom and dressing in a t-shirt and boxers, tossing the towel in the laundry hamper. He grabs the bucket and trash bag from the closet [somebody gets drunk every week, minimum, and he'd learned that it's just smarter to have that shit handy] and sets it by the bed, drawing the covers back before leaving the room to find Sam. Still naked, sopping wet, curled up in his own bed.

"Come on. My bed," he mutters, kicking the box spring lightly with his foot. "I got the bucket and everything."